Thursday, August 13, 2009

Three Rhymes for Skipping Rope

Right. So we're two weeks into August, I've put nothing up since the end of July, and I've folks to reply to that I've left hanging! Wai-oh! The thing is I've been working on a big project and whenever I do that, everything else goes by the board. This is not a good thing. I can multi-task, I tell myself.

To no avail.

So, to make up for my delinquency and buy myself a little more time, here are three rhymes for skipping rope. Summer is skipping rope time, so maybe you know some young people who’ll have fun with them. All three are riffs on rhymes we skipped to as children.

(For those who don't know, the rope went faster as the condiments in "Salt, Vinegar..." got hotter.)

So, beg you hol dat fe now! With luck (plenty luck) more on the weekend.

Room for rent

Room for rent
Apply within.
When you come out
I come in.

Look how bad
you leave this place!
Trash everywhere!
It is a disgrace!

Room for rent
Apply within.
When I come out
You come in.

I don’t leave no dirt!
Not even a trace...
The floor so shine
You can see your face.

So if you want
To rent my room
You best arrive
With your mop and broom.

© Pamela Mordecai 2009


Hurricane housing

I need to find
a room to rent.
I tired to live
in this hurricane tent.

I living here since
the last breeze-blow
and I long to leave
but the government slow.

If things keep on
at this drag-foot pace
I going to die
in this very same place!

So I need to find
a room to rent.
before I drop down dead
in this leaky tent.

© Pamela Mordecai 2009

Salt Vinegar Mustard Pepper

Salt vinegar
mustard pepper
spin the rope
for this high stepper.

Pepper mustard
vinegar salt
slow him down
till him come to a halt.

© Pamela Mordecai 2009

4 comments:

FSJL said...

Mustard, vinegar,
pepper, salt;
no time for dat
want single malt.

clarabella said...

FSJL: Maybe we could do a book of skipping songs together? What say you? Of course, this business about single malts might not do for folks aged 4 to fourteen?

FSJL said...

Pam: When I was a child I learned an eighteenth century poem called "Cranbourne Lane" which involved brandy.

Mi a jump,
mi feel frisky;
beg yu massa
fi some whisky.

Whe yu seh?
Pickney bright!
Go a yu yard!
Nuh si is night?

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